


Holding on to You

by Glare



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alpha!Finch, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Just mentioned and not between the boys, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mixed Signals Abound, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Omega!Reese, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-04-19 21:58:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4762532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glare/pseuds/Glare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Reese is an omega living on the streets of New York, until one day he's rescued from an interrogation room by the enigmatic billionaire Harold Finch, who has an unusual proposition for him.</p><p>Previously titled "Home"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First work in this fandom, and also my first A/B/O fic, so please be patient with me. Unbeta'd. Critique, comments, and kudos are always appreciated. This will follow the plot of the show for the most part, but with an A/B/O twist. Thanks for reading!

It has been a long time since John knew the meaning of the word _home_. Once upon a time, _home_ had been the rustle of soft sheets, the pleasant burn of tequila against the back of his throat, the warmth of the Mexican sun as it poured in through an open window, Jessica’s warm scent. That was gone now. It's hard to fight the painful memories that surfaced in the alcohol-induced haze, but it doesn’t stop him from drinking. If anything, it made drinking all the more appealing; wallowing in the memories of _home_ and hoping that maybe one of these nights, when he slipped away into the darkness of drunken unconsciousness, maybe he wouldn’t wake up.

There are a couple of beta boys talking business in soft tones on the other end of the car. He could barely hear them over the rhythmic noise of the subway as it plowed along, soothing in its consistency. John can make out the faint outline of a small handgun in the waistband of one of the youths, but is content to mind his own business and in return they leave him be.

However, the delicate peace that has settled over the car is shattered with the arrival of several noisy alphas, the air around them filling quickly with their thick musk. It’s enough to set John on edge, oppressive against his finely trained senses. He plays unawares, forcing himself to go limp in his seat as though unconscious when his instincts were warning him against taking his eyes off these unfamiliar alphas. The betas, for their part, do their best to warn off the pack of adolescents. The leader simply laughs, mocking the weapon he’s been threatened with, and the betas are promptly escorted from the car.

“Every little punk is carrying now, Anton. That’s why your father wanted us to take the car home.” The second-in-command is apparently the more practical of the little pack’s leadership.

“Relax, we’ll pick up some new hardware next week. Restore a little order. Besides, when we take the car,” John can hear their footsteps drawing nearer, “we don’t get to meet new friends. Like this guy.”

Anton’s amused giggle is the only warning John gets before the boy goes for the bottle in his hand. It’s second nature to stop him, to snatch the alpha’s wrist in an iron grip. To prove that he’s not some defenseless, homeless omega that can be bossed around by any young alpha that shows him their teeth. He lets go after a moment, fixing the boy with a warning glare. Anton has taken his booze, and if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll leave it at that and stay where he’d stumbled away to. Unfortunately, Anton is a young alpha with bruised pride and a pack to prove himself capable to.

“You didn’t bring enough for the whole group,” Anton sneers, setting the bottle onto a nearby seat. “Me and my boys have to teach you about sharing.”

John takes a deep breath as the pack draws closer. He’d hoped to avoid this sort of thing, but he’s not the type to take threats. Especially the kind of threats the boys have just made. He’s not a tool, not a thing to be _used_ , and he’s not going to allow it. Beating them back, into submission, is as easy and familiar as breathing.

\--

“I’ll need a statement from the bum,” Detective Carter declares as she prowls down the station’s halls towards lockup, “which hospital did they take him to?”

The beta officer at her side keeps stride with her as she goes. She hadn’t wanted to deal with this tonight. She was supposed to be home with her son hours ago, but the crime scenes just kept coming. And now she has to deal with some pathetic pack that’s perpetuating alpha stereotypes by thinking they could take an omega without their consent.

“He declined treatment. We got video on it, though,” the officer is quick to inform her.

The pack, four adolescent alphas, make a pitiful sight cuffed and lined up along a bench in the hall. Bloody and bruised, the one that had been identified as their leader smirks at her. She pointedly ignores him and makes her way to the officer’s desk, where he pulls up the security footage from the train. She wasn’t entirely sure what she expected, considering the state the pack had been left in, but their omega “victim” beating his alpha attackers senseless without suffering a single serious injury certainly wasn’t it. She looks at the officer questioningly, and he points her towards the interrogation room, where the omega has been isolated from his attackers/victims. He’s watching them passively through the window.

“You know, you could have done me a favor and let those guys land a couple more punches,” Carter begins amusedly as she enters the room. It sounds like a joke, but a part of her means it. Then they could write this off as a simple case of omega battery and things would be a lot easier. “Question for you. Looking at that tape, I’d say you spent some time in the service. But you don’t learn how to fight like that in the regular army.” Carter perches on the edge of the desk as she says it, leaning in and dropping her voice to a conspiratorial tone. Her scent, carefully controlled thanks to her own military training, will read as friendly and calm to their unknown omega while she attempts to find some common ground. Something to make him open up. “So what were you? Special Forces? Delta?”

He remains silent, eyes fixed on the empty water cup in his hand. A mockery of submission. No eye contact, head tilted to the side _just so_ , but no answer to her questions either. She plows on nonetheless, fetching a new cup and filling it for him.

“I’m Carter. You didn’t give us a name.”

That earns a response. “You know, it’s funny. Seems like the only time you need a name now is when you’re in trouble. So am I in trouble?”

“I don’t know, you tell me. You’re the one living on the street.”

The omega meets her eyes in clear challenge, but once again remains silent. Carter can feel her delicate nerves snapping. She’s had too long a day to be dealing with this.

“Yeah, making that transition back can be tough,” she tries as she sits back down on the table. “Some of the guys I knew got a little lost, needed a little help adjusting. You need some help?”

No answer, but he’s picked up the fresh glass. She has fingerprints to run, now.

“Of course, some other guys I knew,” she drawls, picking up the glass and changing tactics, “they’d done so many evil things, they felt like they needed the punishment. That sound more like your story?”

The omega doesn’t react to the video or her accusations, and Carter’s suddenly lost the patience to keep up and pretense of comradery. She snatches the glass with a snarl of, “Excuse me for a second,” and stalks out the door. She isn’t aware that while the white-coated tech is running the prints, while they’re made aware of their very own Angel of Death, a beta claiming to be the man’s lawyer is whisking the omega away right from under her nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit 1: Updated to fix formatting/grammatical errors. No content change.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clandestine meeting and stupid emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here I was thinking I would have to wait until tomorrow to post this.  
> Thank you for the lovely comments and the kudos. It's always delightful to know someone else is enjoying reading these things as much as I love writing them. Unbeta'd as always.

Harold Finch has never been much of a people person. Being a ‘people person’ requires a level of trust Harold has been unwilling to give for a great many years. He hoards secrets like gold, hesitant to share even with Nathan, the closest friend he’d had in memory. Hell, his fiancé hadn’t even known his real name. So it’s to no surprise that even as he stands overlooking the waterfront, waiting patiently for the crunch of tires over gravel to announce his guest’s arrival, he finds himself going over an ever-growing list of just how wrong this encounter could go.

It wasn’t like he’s come into this situation underprepared. Harold Finch takes great pride in being properly _prepared_ for anything. The deserted strip is exactly the kind of place one would want for a clandestine meeting, set back from the road and away from prying eyes. It’s neutral territory, which he’s sure the wary operative will prefer over being taken to that of an unknown alpha. It is, in his humble opinion, the best possible place for their initial introduction to happen. He knows all the facts there are to know about John Reese, omega, ex-CIA operative. He’s got a file that reads like a biography and he’s spent hours poring over every little detail, putting together the scattered pieces of history that created the man he’s selected to welcome into his fold. He’s even chosen to forgo his usual scent blockers in hopes that the honesty will be well received. However, if being _prepared_ was all it took to secure a successful outcome at any endeavor, Harold suspects his life may have gone a very different way than the path he currently travels.

Despite how well he might have prepared, how many variables he has accounted for, John Reese is still his own person and no amount of words on a page are going to be able to predict with any certainty how he will react to Finch’s proposition. So if he’s a little more tense than usual as the sleek back car rolls to a stop, well, who can blame him?

A glance behind him reveals that Reese is in a much sorrier state than Finch had predicted. His hair is matted and uncut, facial hair in a similar state of untidiness. Ratty clothes hang loosely from his frame, worn with age and abuse. The sight of him upsets the alpha in Finch. He’s struck at once with the dual urges to comfort Reese and rip the throats from the handlers that have left the omega in such a state. It’s something of a surprise, considering how much control he has over his more primitive instincts.

John draws nearer in a swagger, using the false bravado to mask his discomfort with the situation. Finch knows the moment John can smell him, though. The omega halts in his tracks still some feet away, stiffening with the realization that Finch is not the beta he had likely assumed.

“Do I owe you money?” The question could almost pass as a joke, but Finch can hear the underlying question.

_What is this courtesy going to cost me?_

“You don’t owe me anything, Mr. Reese.” It is apparently the right thing to say, because the tension in the omega’s posture slips away, if only just a tad. Finch takes a moment to relish in the soft thrum of pleasure that comes with this small success.

John Reese is predictably unhappy with having his past dragged out into the open. He is even less thrilled when he’s berated for the suicidal tendencies he’s developed. But as he’s stomping menacingly towards Finch, the alpha finds himself waving off the bodyguards that have sprung into action upon noticing the outburst. John’s body language reads are more fearful than hostile, and if Finch could smell the omega’s natural scent beneath what he’s picked up from the city, it would likely confirm his assessment. Harold knows John is posturing; his anger a desperate clutch for stability against a world that’s spun out of his control. The alpha doesn’t back down, channeling every instinct he’s ever suppressed in his masquerade as a pleasant beta while he attempts to calm the riled man, and is rewarded when John settles on the bench by his side.

“I don’t think you need therapy, or pills, or some alpha to baby you.”

“What do I need, then?” John asks, curiosity finally overcoming the anxiety that had bleeding from him for the duration of their conversation.

“You need a purpose,” Finch tells him in a voice that brokers no argument, “or more specifically, you need orders.”

\--

There is something dangerously close to disappointment laying heavy on John’s chest as he shaves away the last lingering traces of his once-overgrown beard. He was genuinely curious about the strange, little alpha that seemed to know him better than even he knew himself. It was this curiosity that drove him to follow Finch into the car; to follow dutifully as Finch make his speech. Only to be crushed by the bitter disappointment, he shouldn’t lie to himself about that, of being wanted for nothing more than his skills. Though, as an ex-operative, he supposes he should have seen that coming.

Really, he doesn’t know why he’s doing this, he thinks. He’s scrubbing away the shaving cream, looking at a face that is something close to familiar for the first time in months and dutifully ignoring the slanderous news broadcast reporting on his arrest, as turns the discontent over in his mind. It has been some time since John has concerned himself with trivial details like the way he looked. Not since his return from China. Especially not since he came to New York. The raggedy, unclean look was enough to keep away most who were curious about an omega on the streets. Even if it hadn’t been an acceptable tactical decision, he likely wouldn’t have had the motivation with the grief of Jessica’s loss weighing so heavily upon him.

Perhaps it’s because that broken, homeless man’s face is all over every wanted poster in New York. Perhaps it’s because he’s been given some reminder of the life he used to have. Or perhaps, something in the deep-dark recesses of his mind whispers traitorously, he _wants_ to look nice. Perhaps he’s remembered all the lingering stares of alphas in his prime. Perhaps he’s wanting one more alpha to look at him like that…

No, that was preposterous. Whatever this feeling is, it certainly isn’t envy. It certainly wasn’t envy that set his blood boiling when the alpha explained his reasons for springing John from his cage. John could never feel envious of the slim, pretty, female omega that Finch requested he tail. It hadn’t driven him to a little fleabag motel, where he’d rent a room using a credit card lifted during his final confrontation with Finch’s beta goons. He got into the shower of his own accord, obviously. And if he spent too much time under the scalding stream, scrubbing away at the scent of blood and grime and stale sweat until his skin was a raw pink and he finally smelled like _himself_ , well, John doesn’t see how that’s anybody else’s business.

John Reese does not get _envious_ of strangers over their value to an even stranger alpha.

With that thought in mind, the internal debate with his own neglected instincts laid to rest for now, he settles into the threadbare sheets with the bottle of liquor, lifted from the collection in Finch’s fancy car, and allows the familiar numbness to overcome him. In hindsight he might have noticed the way it dragged him under disproportionately fast considering his accumulated tolerance, but in that moment he’s willing to attribute it to the exertion from his fight, too little sleep, and the events of the day.

Besides, what kind of person would think to lace the contents of their liquor cabinet before John had even set foot in the car?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's be real, yo. Reese was so gone for Finch so fast it wasn't even funny. Dude spent months barely functioning and, in the span of several hours after meeting one hot stranger, does an almost complete 180. Also drugged John because I refuse to believe an ex-CIA operative can actually get drunk enough to sleep through having his room invaded, being hauled across town, and zip-tied to a headboard without knowing something was up. 
> 
> On a side note: I have now watched up to 3.03 in my run-through. Finch's collection of bird-related alias' continue to be a source of delight. 
> 
> Another side note: What do you think of a PoI/Blacklist x-over? Liz used to work for the NYPD. What if she had been briefly assigned to the Man in the Suit case in the past???


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for 3.16

Helplessness is a relatively new feeling for Harold Finch. All his life, there’s always been a way out. Some bit of code or a fresh new identity that could free him from even the direst of situations. Even after the bombing, he’d gone about his business easily enough despite his new handicap. But when he watches from the relative safety of his car as CIA Operative John Reese levels a gun on his latest number, Harold is well and truly _helples_ s. There is no one to call beyond the obvious authorities; simply getting out of the Library and to his vehicle without the help of his wheelchair has drained any of the strength he’s saved up. Even if he could get to Casey, he wouldn’t stand a chance against anyone as skilled as Reese in a physical confrontation. Finch has sweated through the scent blockers at this point; he’s practically choking on the stench of his own anxiety. But he can do _nothing_.

Then the gun swings wide, the shots ring out, and Finch can feel his breath catch in surprise because John Reese, with his perfect track record and mountains of paperwork praising obedience, is slowly approaching the still-breathing number, weapon held in a loose grip at his side. All of the aggression has drained from his form, replaced by a weariness than Harold is intimately familiar with. Casey eyes John nervously, but then the omega is pushing a wad of cash into his hands with instructions on a safe way out of the country.

“I’ve looked into the eyes of traitors before,” Harold hears John say through the link to Casey’s phone. “You aren’t one.”

There is something in that moment that just knows, knows in the same way the Machine knew about Grace, that John Reese is the one he has been looking for. He’s burned through employee after employee because they’ve all been _wrong_. He’s been trying to complete a puzzle without all the pieces. John Reese is his missing piece; is the partner he needs by his side if he’s to ever give Nathan’s crusade the honor it deserves. And now that he knows, now that he sees, there’s something in Finch that doubts he’ll ever be able to settle for anything less.

The same feeling is heavy in Harold’s stomach as he watches his hired muscle pull an unconscious Reese from the fleabag motel room he’s holed up in. John looks more like the man Harold saw that night, with his hair shorn short and face clean-shaven. It’s perhaps a low blow, drugging the omega, but now that John’s so close, Harold is hesitant to let him slip away again. Especially now. Especially after the days spent scrubbing security footage, of restless nights worrying, after the Machine delivered John’s number in the days before Ordos.

John surfaces slowly, vision still fuzzy around the edges and his mind struggling to fill in the gaps where his night should be. The room around him is nicer than his previous accommodations. The sheets are softer, the air cleaner. He’s been moved. A sharp twinge from his wrist draws his eyes up to the solid headboard, another thing he doesn’t recognize, that he is apparently zip-tied to. It doesn’t budge when he gives it a hard tug. It should probably more worrying than it is, waking up in a strange place, but the drugs are keeping an edge off the swelling panic. There’s no sign of a physical threat yet, beyond the zip-tie. He’s even got all of his clothes on. Plus, if anybody really intended to keep him here, they would have done more than restrain one hand.

The world is still spinning when the screaming starts one cryptic phone call later. John’s mind hasn’t quite regained all its higher functions yet, and he finds himself desperate to get out of the tie. Desperate to stop whatever is happening just on the other side of that door. The shard of glass liberated from the mirror bites into his palm as he saws at the zip tie, but it doesn’t stop him. He barely notices it, barely notices anything beyond the blood that roars in his ears. The door gives under his weight and, trailing blood along the way, he stumbles into the next room prepared to fight. To protect. To kill.

Which leaves him properly confused when the threat comes in the form of a small tape player resting atop the coffee table. He stares at it stupidly for a moment, watching the wheels turn and hearing the screams, trying to comprehend what exactly is going on. Everything is still a bit sluggish. Instinct had been driven him to get loose, to get here, but now that there’s no immediate threat it’s a mad scramble for a rational thought process.

Rustling fabric finally draws his gaze away from the little contraption. Mr. Finch is sitting in a chair nearby, looking appraisingly at John. He doesn’t seem concerned by the omega’s violent entry. In fact, if the slight curl to his lips is anything to go by, John would think that the alpha is quite pleased with it. The attentive gaze makes him suddenly very aware that he’s yet to rise from where he’s fallen on his knees.

“Too late,” Finch says while John is struggling to his feet, latent effects of the drugs still making coordination difficult. “This recording is three years old.” John stumbles away when the alpha steps closer, well aware of his vulnerability in this state, but Finch only turns off the tape player and drops a newspaper detailing the events of the room’s history beside it before retreating to the other side of the room. John is thankful for the distance. “A beta woman murdered in this room by her husband—for the insurance. You were too late for her… Just like you were too late for your friend Jessica. You were halfway around the world when she was killed.”

John’s moves quickly, pinning Finch to the doorframe by his throat. The growl that escapes would have frightened anyone else. Kara had been quite impressed the first time she’d managed to coax one out of him. Omegas are not known in society for violent outbursts, after all. But Finch is all but relaxed under his grip, like the alpha trusts John not to hurt him. Like he doesn’t understand the trespass he’s made by uttering _her_ name. Nobody had the right to talk to John about _her_. Especially not a stranger like this alpha.

“What the hell do you know about it?” John snarls.

The adrenaline from his desperate scramble to get free is still rushing through his veins, and a part of him wishes Finch would fight back, just to get spend some of the accompanying aggression. Finch, however, is calm. He stands as though quite content to remain there until John sees fit to release him, breathing relatively even despite the constricted airway.

“It’s the truth. You left the government because they lied to you. I never will!”

John’s always known it, deep down. Somewhere, he’s always known that Jessica’s death wasn’t his fault. Hearing Finch say it, however, is another story altogether. No—he shouldn’t be agreeing with this alpha. He should be angry. He should be hurting Finch for dragging up her memories, right? But the growl’s already tapered off. John realizes too late that that he probably shouldn’t be standing so close to the other man. The alpha is kicking out waves of _soothing_ and _calm_ and most importantly _safe_. His grip on Finch’s neck has relaxed so something barely-there, and that weaker part of him wants nothing more than to bury his nose in the crook of Finch’s neck and bask in the comfort.

“I think all you ever wanted to do was protect people.”

John’s grip slips away, but he remains hovering close to Finch. It’s a last show of defiance, a last attempt to keep himself from surrounding to the alpha’s intoxicating power. He needs Finch to back away first. And he does—but as he moves, he takes John firmly by the elbow and steers him over to the room’s couch. John surprises himself by going easily, allowing himself to be situated to Finch’s approval before the alpha sits beside him.

“That’s a wiretap recording. NSA or government. But you’re not government?”

“No, I’m not. I guess you could call me a concerned third party.” They lapse into silence for a moment. John is aware of Finch studying him from the corner of his eye, likely suspicious of his sudden compliance. John can’t blame him—he would be too, under the circumstances. But with so much of that damn scent in the room, it’s easier to hear the alpha out.

“You couldn’t have saved this women, or your friend,” Finch murmurs, settling a hand at the base of John’s neck. He really should be fighting this—this connection Finch is fostering—but it’s been such a long time since any alpha, let alone an alpha with authority like Finch, has paid him any mind that he can’t help but feel a little drunk under the attention. “But you could have if you had known in time. And that’s the other thing I’m offering you: a chance to be there in time.” A picture of the woman from earlier is pressed into his hands. “It’s not too late for her. You can help me stop what’s about to happen.”

There’s a moment of silence, an encouraging pressure against the nape of his neck, and he’s dutifully following Finch out the door.

He can’t see the distinctly pleased smile on Finch’s face as he goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have to admit, not sure how I feel about this one....


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The muse showed up out of nowhere so here's a chapter of pining and fluff and Alpha!Finch being so damn pleased with himself.

Finch supplies him with top of the line suppressants. Military quality; the kind that would leave you stinking like beta even without a decent masking spray; that would dull the latent instincts to nothing but static in the back your mind. John never takes them. He doesn’t have enough fingers and toes combined to count the number of times those instincts have saved his life in the past. Being able to differentiate between scents, to track and find and identify, is as important to the job as any of the alleyway brawls or breaking and entering. John almost tells Finch to stop paying for the undoubtedly exorbitantly priced pills every time he sees them, waiting on the desk every two weeks like clockwork. Instead he takes the suppressants, and other supplies Finch leaves laying around for him, down to the homeless encampment that had been his home for so many months. There are people that need them, and Joan will see them put to good use.

                John never does ask Finch to stop, though. Finch has undoubtedly noticed, even through the cloud of masking spray he wears most days, that John isn’t taking the pills. He’s an unbonded omega and Herald a, to his knowledge, unbonded alpha. Having someone like John in his territory isn’t something easily overlooked, no matter how much Finch likes to pretend otherwise. John thinks he understands why the alpha keeps offering the pills, though. Finch doesn’t want him to feel pressured into using his inborn instincts; Finch wants him to know that his comfort comes first. The little, white pills are a promise of sorts, much like the one uttered in their second encounter. Finch will not use him the way the government did. Of that, John is certain.

                It’s not like the job is the only reason for avoiding the suppressants. In truth, John just doesn’t like them; hasn’t had need for them. He’d taken them during his years in the marines, a requirement for omegan servicemen, but the CIA hadn’t pressed the issue and Kara was always willing to lend her services when the situation required it. John was raised not to be ashamed of his gender, and sometimes it did him favors in the field. Most decent alphas were hesitant to hit an omega, and the numbers were more willing to trust someone seen as harmless by society than the imposing picture he cut as a beta. As for attracting unwanted romantic overtures, he spends so much time at the Library that Finch’s scent is starting to cling to his skin and the fabric of his suits. He may have to field the occasional advance of a bold beta, but any alpha with a nose can tell there’s already someone in John’s life. Even if it’s not the relationship they expect. Finch may have gone back to wearing scent blockers, but he’s prone to working long hours and falling asleep at his desk. The blockers wear off in the night, and the damage is done

When there aren’t numbers to send him scurrying about town, will forgo the suit and jog to the Library in sweats, relishing in the bite of the New York morning. Sometimes Finch is there, tinkering with these wires or that code. John helps out, when he can. Other times Finch is not there, the alpha’s identities requiring more hands-on than John’s own, and John will spend the day cleaning his guns, reorganizing their supplies, and if there’s nothing else to attend to, reading. Their safehouse is, after all, a library. On those days John curls up on the couch he dragged up into a disused break room early in their partnership and busies himself with whatever selection he’s started. Recently, he’s working his way through Finch’s collection of classic literature, careful with the delicate pages of the alpha’s revered first editions. And sometimes, when his muscles are pleasantly sore from his jog and the world outside seems so far away, when he can smell his scent mingling with Finch’s and marking the territory as _theirs_ , John lets himself doze off.

\--

That is how Finch finds him, one afternoon. The scratchy fabric and poor cut of the suit belonging to Harold Wren, IT, has been bothering him from the moment he stepped out the door, and Finch can hardly wait to get to the Library and change. Keeping a spare suit at their base of operations is a new habit he’s picked up, thanks to John’s tendency to attract trouble. He never knows when a situation is going to escalate and draw him out of the safety of his fortress. Ruined suits almost always accompanied those times.

The streets seem to be more crowded than usual, residents brushing past with their usual haste while tourists clutter the limited space on the sidewalk, chattering loudly and gawking at nothing in particular. Their conversations aren’t helping the headache that’s pulsing behind Harold’s eyes after another unpleasant encounter with Dave over the quality of his code. Beta Harold Wren is nothing spectacular, and neither is the code he writes. It’s a guise carefully crafted to keep him under the radar, but no amount of justifications or scent blockers make it any easier to sit back and let an _inferior alpha_ blatantly challenge his authority. It’s only years of experience, years of hiding, and a mantra of _Harold Wren is nobody_  that keep him from putting Dave in his place.

Slipping into the quiet of the Library is a relief. The bustle of the overcrowded streets made the usually pleasant walk strenuous, and he wants nothing more than a warm cup of Sencha Green and the chance to work with some real code. He’s been tinkering with something that will hopefully gain them access to the databases of a few of the more prestigious government organizations. While it’s no problem at all to hack any of the groups in the US Government’s alphabet soup, covering their tracks is notably harder.

The gate to the second floor is already unlocked, but now that his blockers are starting to wear off, he can  catch hints of John’s scent. The omega’s begun to spend more time in their sanctuary—not that Harold minds. When John’s in the Library, he’s not going to get stabbed or shot at.

Finch doesn’t make it to changing the suit. In fact, he only makes it as far as the break room, intending to start the water for his tea before ridding himself of Wren’s horrendous clothes but becoming thoroughly sidetracked by the sight of John sprawled out on the couch. The omega’s sleeping soundly despite Harold’s entrance, track pants low on his hips and tee shirt hiked up to his ribs, exposing the scarred skin of his midsection. John had been near emaciated when Finch found him, ribs far too prominent under his hands when fitting the man for his first suit. Their first dinner together had resulted in Finch passing John half of his own meal and trying not to stare while the omega wolfed down the food—likely the first decent meal he’d had in some time.

Now, his bones are not as prominent beneath his skin, and John has started to develop a bit of the pudge to his stomach that middle-aged men are prone to. No one with eyes would declare John as anything less than fit, but Finch can’t help the intoxicating sense of satisfaction that comes with knowing John is eating well; that he is providing well enough for the omega to develop even that miniscule amount of fat. And more importantly, that John is confident enough in their combined abilities to allow it. The CIA file Harold keeps in his safe detailed the exhausting regime John kept in order to be in nothing less than pristine condition. John is allowing himself this small indulgence because he trusts Harold to have his back. And yes, that is far more intoxicating than providing for John. John _trusts_ him.

Harold’s avoided touching the omega unnecessarily during their partnership. He’s kept a professional distance, as any good employer should. He knows the abuses of Kara Stanton during her time as John’s handler. But John’s scent is mingling in the air with his own, heady and warm, and his fingers are brushing over the omega’s exposed belly before he can stop himself, mapping scars and reveling in the physical proof of their growing connection. Then John shifts, eyelids fluttering and a drowsy purr escaping his throat. The omega’s gaze, still unfocused, comes to rest on Finch, and the alpha can feel the heat as his cheeks flush what is likely a bold crimson at being caught in the act. He snatches his hand away, mutters something vague about John needing to have his suit refitted, and flees the room—tea long forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk where this came from I was just thinking about how John would probably be really skinny after months on the street and Harold probably stuffed food down his throat those first few weeks and this just happened sorry.
> 
> Poor Harold is starting to realize that he may have gotten himself in over his head.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still very unhappy with this chapter, but after re-writing it 4 (4!!!) different times, I have come to the conclusion that this is as good as it's going to get and I can't stand to look at it any more. Please take it and try not to hate me. The next chapter will be better, I promise.

Staccato bursts of clicking keys echo through the Library, Finch’s agitated typing the only disturbance in the silence. His usual flawless code is a mess in his distraction, sloppy and inelegant. He finds himself hitting the delete key more times than he can keep track of, distracted as he berates himself for his actions. Honestly, what had he been thinking, touching John like that? Yes, he needs John to trust him; John trusting in him is essential to their workplace relationship. But somewhere along the way he’s gotten caught up in the primal pleasure of having an unbonded omega so close, so comfortable around him and safe in his territory, that he’s allowed instincts long-repressed to rear their head with a vengeance and overwhelm his usually perfect control, leading to the disaster in the break room.

It is the worst kind of unprofessionalism. John is dependent on him for most everything—from money to shelter and even as far as the will to live. Harold promised himself he wouldn’t take advantage of John’s gratitude and purpose the way his previous employers had, but that’s exactly what he’s done, isn’t it? John hadn’t reacted at all to the invasion of his space. Finch desperately wishes the omega had yelled or growled or done something, anything, to express some form of displeasure. Instead he has the image of John blinking dreamily up at him seared into the back of his eyelids, John’s purr ringing in his ears, and nausea at his own actions roiling in his gut.

Finch almost cries in relief when the phone rings. A new number: a chance to put some distance between the omega and himself. A chance to clear his head and wrestle his rogue instincts back under control. He passes the doorway on his way to collect the necessary books from the stacks, and though he doesn’t look in, he can hear rustling to indicate John is now up and about. It comes as no surprise that the operative heard the phone ringing.

When John emerges, he’s changed into the sleek suit now associated with his identity as the Man in the Suit. A steaming mug of tea is placed on the desk beside the mouse and John leans over Harold’s shoulder to watch him work, chest just brushing the alpha’s back.

“New number?” He asks, voice still scratchy with disuse. He doesn’t seem to notice how tense Finch has gone is beneath him.

“I was just looking into it,” Finch says stiffly, “if you could—oh my.”

His agitation with the omega is derailed when the computer brings up the smiling face of Detective Joss Carter. One of New York’s finest cops, one of rare few left uncorrupted by greed. Despite her persistence on seeing that the Man in the Suit faces justice, both Harold and John have developed respect, and perhaps some level of fondness, for the other alpha. Perhaps it’s the way she clings so stubbornly to her black and white moral code, a stark contrast to their own shades of grey, that they both admire.

“It seems Detective Carter is about to find herself in a bit of trouble.”

It comes out rougher, perhaps more panicked than he intended. He would be lying if he said that the Numbers he lost before John don’t still haunt him every time the phone rings, and sometimes it is a prudent reminder to not allow their recent successes to go to his head. This time he wishes that wasn’t the case, because something in his voice prompts John into action. The omega leans into his space, nuzzling into the nape of his neck briefly before resting his cheek on the top of Finch’s head. He’s all but swimming in John’s warm, familiar scent, and he feels more than hears the faint rumbling of John’s soothing purr against his back. It’s meant to be a comforting gesture, a reminder that he’s no longer so helpless and alone, but the anger at his earlier lapse in self-control is still simmering beneath Finch’s skin.

“Perhaps you should go and find her, Mr. Reese.” Finch snaps, briefly satisfied when the omega flinches away at his tone. That feeing doesn’t last more than a second, self-loathing crashing over him as Reese struggles to wrestle the hurt and confusion on his face into something neutral. He succeeds after a moment, and promptly sinks away into the shadows of the stacks to collect his things. Watching the retreating form of the omega’s slumped shoulders, the air around him turning acrid with John’s shift in mood, Finch feels guilt gnawing at his chest. He doesn’t call John back and the mug of tea grows cold, untouched.

\--

To say that John is confused by Finch’s sudden 180 would be an understatement. One minute Finch is all but crooning over him, and the next he’s being dismissed like an underling with barely concealed disdain. Had John done something to upset the alpha? Was it the invasion of Finch’s space? Sure, it was a risk, but a calculated one. New numbers always worried Finch, always brought the unpleasant reminder of a time when he was helpless to save those innocents from harm. John was only trying to help, but it seems he’s miscalculated.

Finch is short with him over the coms, spitting out only the necessary information before cutting the connection. John takes out the aggression that comes with his confusion and rejection out on the threats to Carter. First the gun runner’s men, then the abusive husband whose pretty, beta wife Carter has taken under her wing. By the time Carter’s lured into a back alley by her CI, the true guilty party, John is wound so tight that he doesn’t even think twice before he puts two bullets into the man’s chest. It’s a breach of his contract with Finch, a violation of his own attempts to be better, but there’s no guilt when Carter looks up at him in a mixture of shock and horror.

Finch says nothing on the matter when John returns to the library.

The next day, there are two boxes of suppressants waiting in place of the usual one. John takes them both, delivering one to Joan at the homeless encampment and the other to the medicine cabinet in his lousy apartment.

There’s not a number for another few days, for which John is grateful. He spends them sick and disoriented while his body adjusts to the medication. It doesn’t affect the work too much, when Finch finally calls him back in. Tracking is a bit harder and the numbers are more suspicious of him, but it’s no more difficult to adjust to this than it is to deal with Finch’s curt treatment. They save numbers, stop the bad guys. John spends off days in his small apartment, working out or cleaning the cache of weapons he keeps there, and finds himself missing lazy afternoons in the Library. He’d tried to go in once, but with the combination of his suppressants and Finch’s sudden excessive use of masking spray, the air was stale and cold and unwelcoming. He hasn’t tried since.

Suppressants can only do so much against a heat, but John knows his body well enough to give Harold notice of the impending off days. He spends them in an overpriced hotel room with Zoe Morgan. If John were being honest with himself, he might admit that he desperately wishes to be spending it with someone else. But he’s not, so he does his best to smother down the thoughts of what someone else’s moans might sound like in his ear, what their weight might feel like pressed against his back, what the bruises their fingers would leave on the skin of hips might look like. He forces himself to be content with Zoe Morgan. She’s professional enough to not bond with him in the haze of orgasm, at least.

John can’t help the vindictive satisfaction that comes with watching Finch’s nostrils flare, his brows furrowed with distaste, when John returns to the Library still stinking of heat and Zoe and sex. Finch pointedly says nothing on the matter, and for a moment John thinks that this maddening professional distance is the future of their relationship.

Then the Machine spits out four numbers, and everything goes to hell.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively titled: Why does it take trauma to make Finch get his shit together.

Two of the numbers are already lost by the time Finch and John reach them, and tension between them is expectedly high. John can’t do his job if he doesn’t get the numbers fast enough, but Harold can’t control when the Machine gives them out. It’s nothing as petty as blame—not really. Instead, it’s a mutual feeling of helplessness. These are the first numbers they’ve lost in some time, and they serve as a bitter reminder of just how fragile this enterprise is. It certainly doesn’t help their already strained relationship.

John saves the last two: two terrified sisters just trying to provide for the only family they have. And then he calls Carter. He’s not sure why, but he suspects it has something to do with the bland, _Well done, Mr. Reese_ waiting for him back at the Library. The once-beloved praise is now delivered with such disinterest that John doesn’t think he can stand to hear it again. Carter, at least, treats him like another human being.

He doesn’t see the betrayal coming until far too late; until Mark Snow is there in front of him and Cater is watching on with something close to pity. She looks at John like he’s some lost old dog, kicked one too many times and in need of a guiding hand to lead him home. He’s not sure what’s worse: that she sees him that way, or that she believes Snow will really give him that.

“It’s time to come home, John,” the beta calls, lips curved in a soft smile. Once upon a time, John might have actually believed in that gentility.

“I am home,” John says, and he means it. No matter how bad things get with Finch, this is his purpose now. Not even the searing pain of the bullets in his leg and gut can stop him.

\--

Carter often wonders, in the late hours with the Man in the Suit’s file spread out over the surface of her desk, what could have possibly happened to break a man the way John Reese is broken. What could have left him in the state that she found him, hell-bent on drinking himself into oblivion? What has changed so drastically that he now spends his days putting bullets in the kneecaps of New York’s seedier characters? How does he keep himself from falling back on those habits, when the violence he leaves in his wake undoubtedly wars with his every inborn instinct to protect and nurture?

When Carter first interviewed Norman Burdett, there was no doubt in her mind that the frail little man was the beta he appeared to be. He looked like a beta, smelled like a beta, acted like a beta. The only thing even minutely suspicious about Norman Burdett was his story about what had transpired when Reese hauled the little man to his feet during the evidence lockup robbery. Of course he’d spun a convincing story of terror, and Carter had believed him in the end. Of course she had. It was what she wanted to hear. Burdett had played to her desire to believe in the innocence of others and slipped neatly under the radar, neither relevant to furthering her case nor a threat. But now that she’s facing down the _real_ him—whoever that is—she can’t help but wonder how she could have let herself be fooled so completely. How could she have missed this? Because Norman Burdett is definitely alpha; far more important than she could have ever foreseen.

And, in this situation, unquestionably a threat.

Burdett is not a large man by any definition. With the additional hindrance of the injury to his hip, he isn’t exactly the prime candidate for physical confrontation. Carter doesn’t doubt for a second that, were she to try and remove John Reese from his grasp, the alpha would put up one hell of a fight. She’s nearly taken a step back at the intensity of his warning snarl, the challenge in his eyes. The air around them is thick with Burdett’s oppressive scent, conveying _stop_ and _stay away_ and _mine_ in a way that registers with Carter’s most primal instincts. John leans heavily into Burdett’s space, shifting in attempt to take some of his weight off is injured leg, but the movement is accompanied with a fresh wave of blood.

“Get him out of here,” she growls, holstering her firearm and moving to help situate John into the backseat of the towncar. Burdett seems hesitant to let her close, but a pained hiss from John sends him from their side and into the driver’s seat.

It’s a good tactical decision, she tells herself. If she lets them go now, she can catch them later. She can catch them when Snow’s men aren’t around to put any more bullets into John—when it’s a fair game. John doesn’t deserve to be gunned down like an animal, no matter what he’s done. It won’t be that hard to find them again, right? She’s seen their faces after all, and has a neat folder on each of them back in her desk. She will find him again. She will.

And then John looks up at her with those tired eyes, pained but unworried, secure in Burdett’s presence and hell, who is she kidding. Carter slams the door closed and watches the car screech away, mentally tallying the years she’s going to get for aiding/abetting and lying to a federal agent.

\--

It is said that grief can bring with it a false sense of clarity—or at least that’s what Finch’s therapist had said in the tumultuous days post-bombing. Finch had certainly felt the clarity than came with Nathan’s loss. His loyal beta, his right hand, taken from him in the blink of an eye. There are days when Finch can still feel that absence. It’s what spurred him into action over the irrelevant numbers; the desire to honor Nathan’s crusade forcing him onwards.

Before listening to John’s ragged breathing and pained whimpers and _Thank you, Harold_ , he might have thought he could handle this situation with some manner of control. Harold is accustomed to loss, and John would not be the first of his employees to die in the crossfire. But in that instant behind the wheel, with John in his ear telling him to stay away, he is viscerally reminded of watching the doctors pronounce his beloved beta dead, of Grace’s sobs, of forcing himself to abandon them both, and he knows he can’t leave John Reese.

The Machine had thought Nathan irrelevant.

The Machine had thought John irrelevant.

_Everyone is relevant to someone._

Maybe if Finch hadn’t pushed him away, John wouldn’t have felt the need to reach out to Carter. Maybe he could have seen Snow’s ambush coming, and been able to warn John sooner. God, he’d been so _stupid._

Finch’s nails dig into the soft leather of the steering wheel when the omega groans in the backseat, jostled by a too-sharp turn.

The alpha might have considered himself a good man, once upon a time. Before the numbers and Dillinger and almost killing Corwin. That man would have left John to meet his fate with Snow; would have left an irrelevant man to face the justice he likely deserves. But Harold has not been a good man for some time, and John is relevant to him now. He’s not going to allow anything to take John from him.

Harold doesn’t hesitate, dumping bundles of crisp, clean hundreds onto the cold surface of the autopsy table.

It’s amazing what money can buy these days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever notice how past Harold considers himself a good person even though he's just straight-up letting people die and present Harold struggles so much with his own self-loathing when he's actually doing good things. Harold can't see past all those people he let die, can't let himself think that he might actually be a good person, and that's really fucked up.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10k words awww yeah.

John expects a certain amount of care from his employer post-shooting. A hospital bed in one of the Library’s disused rooms, perhaps. Maybe a discreet private nurse checking in on him at his small apartment every few hours. However, as soon as he is stable enough to move, Finch sequesters him away in a spacious uptown apartment. It’s practically anonymous, rented to their seemingly endless supplies of aliases, and in the kind of building where the residents pay for their privacy. John Hayes and Harold Dove are just two more faces in the sea of residents coming and going. They’re safe from the CIA’s prying eyes for now, as long as they stay bunkered down until the storm passes.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Trapped inside the apartment, with the additional handicap of the wheelchair, John’s been rendered useless. Near helpless. He can’t help but feel like a caged animal. He wants to move, to run. Get out of town as fast as he can and lick his wounds in peace. It’s what he’s been trained to do, after all.

The doctor that patched John up had advised that he keep away from the suppressants and give his body the chance to heal unobstructed by the medication. While John was originally thankful for the full return of his senses, when Snow’s threat was still very real and any additional advantage they could have is one they would take, it has become a source of mild distress now. Finch has moved in and stopped wearing his own blockers—to better fit the role of the bonded pair they’re playing, he claims.

John’s going to go crazy if he stays cooped up any longer. The previously spacious apartment is suddenly too small with the alpha’s strong scent in every cranny. There’s only so much he can distance himself from Finch in the limited square footage. The man hovers in John’s space whenever he’s given the chance, when only days prior he’d been using every excuse to distance himself from the omega. Keeping things professional between them seems to have flown out the nearest window. Now there’s casual chatter about nothing at all while Finch putters about the apartment, moving This and That and then This again. Casual brushes and soft smiles. Books and takeout and that damned _cushion_.

Formerly one of the CIA’s top operatives, John is intimately familiar with whiplash.

It feels exactly like this, and the accompanying confusion at the alpha’s behavior is putting him on edge.

Then there’s a number. Finch’s blessed machine comes through with another innocent person to save and John can finally get some room to breathe. Not as much as he’d like, the number belongs to the building’s superintendent, but it gives him something to focus on instead of their cohabitation. Finch cracks the building’s wifi connections with his usual flair, looking quite pleased when John can’t help but compliment his ingenuity. They’ve got eyes on the whole building in no time at all. John mans the computers while Harold takes on the brunt of the legwork involved in their case. It’s not ideal for either of them, working with each other’s skill sets, and perhaps John’s a bit shorter with Harold than he should be. Especially after Finch has kept him safe. But that’s something to worry about after the case.

Earnest Trask, alpha, is in fact their perpetrator. He’s purchased a gun illegally, and seems to be planning to kill one of his residents to keep him from the young Lily Thornton. What they don’t realize until almost too late is that they’ve misread the situation. Misinterpreted familial affection for romantic interest, and the real danger in this situation is the stalker, Rick. John gets to Lily‘s apartment as fast as his crutches will allow, stepping in immediately when Rick sinks a letter opener into Trask’s arm. Finch has already tugged Lily out into the hallway.

The brawl between them is swift. Even on the crutches, John is brutally efficient. Rick goes out the window, and the authorities are called. Trask basks in the attention his daring rescue brings while John and Finch make their exit. Finch will send someone around to collect their things in the morning, and for now, the less questions they have to answer the better. On their way back to the Library, Finch reveals that Ernest Trask did once own several night clubs, a yacht, and even a white bengal tiger.

\--

“Would you like to get dinner, Mr. Reese?” Finch asks abruptly, stopping in front of their usual diner. The lights are still on, a neon sign in the window advertising twenty-four hour service. “It’s just, neither of us have had the chance to eat since this morning, and….”

In truth, John would like nothing more than to get through their debriefing at the Library and go home to his own apartment to process the events of the past few days in peace. But there is something in Finch’s posture, in the way he’s not meeting John’s eyes and hunching a bit more than usual, that makes John think that perhaps this is _important_. A small part of him is pleased at how well he’s able to read the enigmatic man now.

“Sure,” John says, and Finch actually looks surprised.

The alpha smiles, soft and genuine, and settles a guiding hand against the small of John’s back. The touch it barely there, just a brush of fingertips, as though John might flee if Harold pushes too hard. With the way John was avoiding him during their cohabitation, it’s perhaps not an unfounded fear.

Finch directs them to their usual booth, helping to settle John into the bench seat when the injuries agitated by his fight with Rick protest at the additional jostling. The diner is nearly empty at this late hour, just a few college students buried in textbooks and coffee mugs, and it’s quiet except for the turning of pages and the ambient noise of the kitchen. Neither of them bother with a menu, and the pretty waitress behind the counter doesn’t ask them for their order. They’re frequent visitors to the small establishment and tip well enough that the staff make an effort to remember their order. John’s coffee and Finch’s tea are deposited on the table with a genial smile, and they’re left alone again.

Neither of them has said a word. Finch fusses with his suit and drums his fingers on the table in an uncharacteristic display of anxiety, looking anywhere but John. John stays quiet. Finch will get to whatever he means to say as soon as he’s ready. Instead of pressing, he sips at his drink and watches the late-night wanderers through the window. Their food comes, matching plates of eggs benedict, and they eat in silence. Harold still looks a million miles away. It’s only when they’re done, when the waitress has collected their dishes and topped off their mugs, that the alpha finally seems to come to a decision on what to say.

“John,” Harold starts. A false start apparently, as he falls silent for a moment more. His palms are flat on the surface table, the way he tends to hold them when he’s playing all his cards. “I-I know that my behavior these last few weeks has been… a bit unpredictable. I want you to understand that it’s not anything you’ve done. I’m afraid that this discourse between us is rather my own fault. You see, I didn’t-” Finch stops again. His cheeks and the tips of his ears are starting to flush a soft pink.

“When I hired you, I didn’t account for my own reaction to having you around. I wanted to make you as comfortable as possible, so that you would trust me the way I need you to, but I wasn’t prepared for how comfortable I became around you. It was inappropriate for me, as your employer, to behave the way I did around you. And I panicked. I shouldn’t have asked of you what I did. I just didn’t want things to become any more complicated between us.” Finch scoffs, cold and self-depreciating. “It seems I only managed to do just that.”

“If you want me to leave, Finch, I’ll go,” John says quietly. He’d go if Finch asked, regardless of his expected lifespan away from the alpha and his numbers. There’s no point in hanging around if he’s not wanted—if his presence is a hindrance to Finch saving innocent lives. They’re far more deserving of that chance to live than John.

He makes to push out of the booth, taking the silence following his statement as confirmation, only to be stopped by the Harold’s fingers closing around his wrist in a deceptively firm grip.

“That’s not-” Finch hisses, “that’s not what I’m saying, John.”

John lets himself be tugged back into his seat, Finch’s grip relaxing only marginally one he’s comfortable again.

“I almost lost you. You would have died in that parking garage had I gotten to you any later. And I realized, perhaps too late, that I acted foolishly in pushing you away. Understand why you’re angry with me, but if you’re willing, I’d like to try and make it up to you.”

John is at a loss for words, his mind scrambling to process what Finch has just confessed. The anger and confusion he’s been harboring rushes from him along with his breath. Finch hadn’t rejected him—not really. The alpha had only been startled by his own reaction to John’s advances. Finch still wanted him around.

Whatever scent John’s giving off, it must be distressing because the eyes of the wait staff and the other patrons have started to settle on them. Finch hushes him, scrambling to get out of his seat and all but towing John from the restaurant. There’s another town car, like the one Harold had rescued him with, and John is ushered into the backseat with soft murmurs from Finch. The driver doesn’t roll down the partition and ask for a destination, instead peeling away into the New York streets as soon as the door has closed behind them.

Finch pulls John across the soft leather of the bench seat once they’re moving, slowly enough that John can pull away if he wants. He doesn’t. Instead, he allows himself to be folded into the alpha’s embrace, to bask in the comforting scent quickly filling the small confines of the car. Finch’s grip on him is tight, likely enough to leave bruises, and John wouldn’t have it any other way.


	8. Chapter 8

When the car stops in front of a nondescript brownstone, when Finch steers him up the front steps and through the front door, John is expecting something to happen. Kisses, maybe. Maybe more. Lord knows there’s enough tension between them to justify more. But Finch stays a respectful distance away and his body language betrays nothing. There’s no sign of the desire that runs through Reese’s veins. In fact, the alpha takes off his overcoat with deliberate slowness, as though trying to communicate his intentions, or lack thereof, through the action. John clamps down on his emotions and follows suit, passing his coat to Finch when prompted. Harold disappears into a closet just by the door, and John wanders further into the house.

Unlike the safehouses John has uncovered in the past, this one feels warm and welcoming. Lived-in. There are more personal touches scattered about the living room John finds at the end of the hall. Old, comfortable furniture; books stacked high on a worn coffee table; pictures and art hanging up on the walls, just slightly off-kilter; a half-filled mug of tea, cold and forgotten on an end table. The other safehouses had come straight out of an interior design catalogue, prim and proper. Combined with the lingering alpha scent, heavy in a way he’s only experienced in the Library, John can come to only one conclusion: Harold has brought him home. His actual, true _home_.

Something swells up in John at the realization. It chases the air from his lungs and burns in his chest and he’s hesitant to put a name to it, but he thinks it might be love. Love for the strange little alpha that pulled him from the gutter and made him anew; who saw beyond the killer and trusted enough to allow John into his most private place. That is where Harold catches up with him, running his fingers reverently over the cushions of an overstuffed armchair and lost in the storm of his own thoughts. The alpha’s hand on his elbow is a grounding presence.

“Why don’t you go get cleaned up?” Finch suggests, directing him to the master bath. “There are towels under the sink, and I’ll bring you a change of clothes. It’ll give you a chance to clear your head while I make a phone call.”

“Thanks, Finch.” John murmurs, and silently prays the other man understands what he’s trying to communicate. Not thanks for just this, but for everything. The soft smile the omega receives in return makes him believe that maybe he does.

\--

Joss Carter spent the better part of her day following the electronic trail of Norman Burdett, John Reese’s mysterious alpha benefactor. She hadn’t had the chance before, with the CIA watching her every move. Snow was smart enough to know that John couldn’t have escaped the garage without help in his state, and while Cater was a rather unorthodox suspect, Snow had no way of knowing that John doesn’t work alone. Hell, Cater hadn’t even known until she’d caught the smaller man dragging Reese into his car. Reese’s prints had apparently surfaced in a veterinary clinic out of state, and while Carter knew the man (or duo, now) well enough to recognize the smokescreen, Snow and his agents had taken off after it, affording the alpha an opportunity to chase her own leads.

So far, the gps data supplied by the phone company had sent her from one side of the city to the other in no discernable pattern, and the trips had cost her a substantial sum in the form of cab fare. The locations she visits are nothing out of the ordinary, small shops and parks that could conceivably fit into anyone’s daily routine, but none of the salespeople or venders recognize the picture she pulled from the security feed of the evidence lockup robbery.

It’s early evening by the time the trail ends—on a street corner outside of an inconspicuous bar. There’s nothing there to give her any indication of where Burdett may have gone, just a payphone and the usual supply of night owls on the prowl. A frustrated grown is perched on the tip of her tongue, ready to slip out at any additional provocation. And then the payphone rings.

It’s just a payphone. It could be a wrong number or any number of other things. But the crowds pass it, it continues to ring, and Carter finds herself gravitating toward it like a magnetic pull. She picks up the receiver.

“You’re wasting your time, Detective,” Burdett’s voice familiar from their interview, “I falsified the location data this morning.”

She can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes this time. She supposes she should have seen it coming, considering the man was capable enough to create an identity rigorous enough to pass police scrutiny. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess your name isn’t Burdett.”

“Do you think finding me will lead you to my partner? Are you still trying to make that arrest?”

“Oh no, my CIA pals got that out of my system. I wanted to catch him, not kill him.”

“And what do you want now?”

“I’m still working that out.”

There’s a brief pause on Burdett’s end of the line, followed by, “Turn around, Detective,” and there he is. Burdett himself, peering at her through the glass of the bar’s front window. She sighs, hangs up the phone, and enters the building.

The man remains silent when she sits opposite him, watching her through narrowed eyes from where he’s reclined in his own chair. His suit is nicer than the one he’d worn in the garage, made even more so by the absence of John Reese’s blood. The scent blockers and nervous twitches of the Burdett persona are notably absent. In fact, he’s almost eerily still, and taking up far more space than necessary on his side of the table. Posturing, she realizes.

“How’s your partner?”

“Safe,” Burdett supplies vaguely, “healing.”

“…Ok. You want to tell me who you are? And what the hell is going on here?”

Burdett scrutinizes something over her shoulder for a moment, and Carter can feel her temper rising. She’s really not a short-fused woman, but this alpha and his partner seemed to have a gift for treading all over her frayed nerves. And when he does speak, it’s some cryptic bullshit about how he learned to swim. It feels so rehearsed that Carter wouldn’t be surprised if he’d made the damn story up.

“Do you see that man, Detective? His name is Derek Watson.”

She peers over her shoulder and catches a glimpse of a man at the bar. Burdett supplies her with a background on the seemingly random man to rival any police file. 39, Beta, home recently foreclosed and consequently abandoned by his wife. It’s not a story Carter hasn’t heard before. What catches her attention is what is he says next.

“Derek Watson is about to be involved in a violent crime.”

She looks over her shoulder again in alarm. The man at the bar seems relaxed as he swirls his drink around in his glass, if perhaps a bit lost in his own thoughts. Nothing about him has set off any of Carter’s instincts, finely-tuned by years of police work, to alert her of a threat. She says as much, but Burdett is certain of his predictions.

“Sorry to throw you into the deep end, but as you know, my partner is indisposed.”

 It seems there was a point to that swimming story after all.

\--

Finch dials Joss’ number when the shower starts up, the notification he’d received while hanging their coats alerting him that the status of the Watson situation has changed from _imminent_ to _averted_.

“That, Detective Carter, is what we do,” he says, and promptly hangs up.

Finch can’t help but feel a certain amount of satisfaction in the way the day has turned out. Two numbers have been handled with limited casualties, they may have gained an ally in the Detective, and John is safely tucked away in his _sanctum sanctorum_. As he deposits a set of sleep clothes on the bathroom counter, John hadn’t bothered to lock the door, he thinks he would classify today as an overwhelming success.

“I’ve left you some clothes and fresh bandages,” he announces, glancing over at the shower.

Not that there’s anything to see beyond a faint outline of John’s form thanks to the steam that fills the stall. Still, there is something to be said for imagination. Finch has seen what lies beneath the omega’s shirt on a number of occasions, thanks to the man’s habit of inuring himself on the job. He can fill in the rest easily enough, and heat flushes his cheeks at the thought.

“There’s a guest bedroom just down the hall that you’re welcome to use,” Finch sputters, and flees the room before John can respond.

Finch is in his own room, already halfway asleep, when he feels the bed dip below an additional weight. It seemed John had turned down the offer of the guest bedroom after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is basically just an excuse for me to write a ton of fluff. Man I love fluff.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't keep a set update schedule, but i'll try to post as frequently as i'm able.  
> Also, i'm only to about 2x14 in my run of this show as of when i'm posting this, so please be careful with spoilery comments ;v;  
> You can find me on tumblr as glaregrypon if you want to swing by and chat or what have you.  
> Thanks again!


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